Kill
by eveningspirit1
Summary: Waters of river Styx are cold and muddy, and Kara wants to drown. Drown in Styx, the river of hate.


DISCLAIMER: The characters and the universe of _Battlestar Galactica_ do not belong to me.

SPOILERS: Set after _Collaborators_, vague mentions of episodes up to this one.

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KILL by -yannik-

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Waters of river Styx are cold and muddy. And so foul that even gods would lose their voices if drinking from it. Which they probably did, because they are not speaking any more.

Kara wants to drown. Drown in Styx, the river of hate. But the river doesn't let her. Her face still above, the air still in her lungs. Why?

Kill. Scratch their eyes out, just for looking at her. Make them beg. Whatever.

You want to go away? Just go, that easy. Everyone just goes.

What do they know anyway? Well fed, shining hair, soft skin. She ate well alright, even if not allowed to use the knife. Was she in prison? So what, so many others were. Some were tortured. _Really _tortured – one might say. Visibly tortured. The outcome of her torture is not visible, so maybe it wasn't real? Maybe she just imagined it?

Maybe none of this was real?

But then… What is?

She wants to kill. Hit and kick, and yell. They gave her a chance to do that, for a moment. Only to take it away. Because of something as stupid as a dog bowl.

She wants to hit something. She wants to hit someone, but she knows she can't because if she did, she would kill. She would hit to kill.

So she goes down to the gym. It's the middle of the night, although it's hard to tell on an overcrowded battlestar. But there won't be crowd down in the gym in the middle of the night. She knows that hitting the bag won't be a relief, but maybe, just maybe, if she gets herself to the brink of exhaustion, maybe she'll find peace for a few precious moments.

But even that is not to be given to her. Just as she enters the weight room, she hers someone punching a bag. Punching it wildly, with hate, with passion. Just as she wants to. She stops in the entrance. She wants to turn around and leave, but jealousy takes the better of her. Someone is doing the very thing _she _wants to do! The smallest, pettiest of things she wants to do, and yet even that is not to be allowed to her?

She's going to take it then! She's going to claim it!

She strides purposefully into the room, to the punching area. She's going to tell that someone, whoever that is, to go to Hades! She wants to hit. She needs to hit. And she sure as hell is going to hit. Something. Or someone.

The man she sees is short, but relatively large, due to his bodily size. His cloths are soaked with sweat, he's obviously been fighting with that bag for quite some time now. Kara wonders if this man – twice as heavy as her – could kill her if they started fighting. If he could help her drown in the river Styx. Then she shakes it off – she's not going to fight. She knows she would be more likely to kill him, and she still tries to prevent herself from doing just that. After all – they don't resurrect…

"You!" she calls instead, with all the hate she feels. And the man turns, and she sees blue eyes of… Lee Adama.

She gasps.

She hates even more, because if there is someone on this whole ship, whom she would not be able to shoo away from here – it's this man.

"Starbuck" he spats, and in his voice she hears hate, nearly matching her own.

She wants to say "forget it", and walk away, but instead… she only walks away, unable to force words from her throat.

"Starbuck!" he calls nonetheless. "Hey, wait!"

She waits. Stops, turns around.

"Want to fight?" he asks, and something in her snaps.

She strides towards him, until they are nose-to-nose.

"I want to kill" she hisses.

She gazes into his icy blue eyes, and waits for him to falter, to buckle, to concede under her rage, but he does none. He gazes back with this incredible intensity she remembers to… love. No, she does not love. She hates!

"I'm available" he responds after a moment, and gestures for her to come into the ring.

She goes. She is going to kill…

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end.


End file.
